Three

It was long understood that Baby Charlotte would change the mix in our house, but none of us really knew exactly what that would mean.
So when she arrived on September 18 at 8:01 a.m. at a hefty 8 pounds 1 ounce, we all waited with baited breath.
"Mom," whispered five-year-old Elizabeth, "Do you really think you can handle all three of us?"
I quickly dodged the question because, no, I'm not really sure I can handle this.
"Oh, Honey," I told her in a reassuring voice pilfered from an old episode of "Leave It to Beaver," "I have more than enough love to go around."
It is questionable, however, whether or not I have enough patience, time and/or cash.
Really, Elizabeth, all I know for sure is that I have a party-of-five Halloween trick-or-treat theme and that credential seems hardly the skill necessary to usher three fragile spirits from childhood to adulthood without any of us ending up in psychotherapy.
So, I'm going minute-by-minute here, from one poopy diaper to snack time to tempter tantrums to searching for a beloved lost teddy. Then suddenly it is 2 a.m. and someone is chomping on my boobs with the force of an automatic staple gun.
When you live this way, funny things happen.
For instance:
One five-year-old spends an entire weekend wearing a bike helmet. Mind you, her getup was enjoyed at playtime as well as at family meals.
Those family meals consisted of varying brands of cold cereal.
After one dinner, another child washes his Wii video games, literally submerging them and scrubbing them with soap.
The baby, meanwhile, meets the three-week mark without an actual bath.
I do shower--so I don't offend said newborn--and realize I literally have nothing to wear but a variety of nursing bras. I dodge around the house in them shirtless accompanied by ratty pajamas bottoms for several days.
My mother loans me a black T-shirt covered in rhinestone dinosaurs. I actually try it on.
Inspired by the shirt, I read the kids "Danny the Dinosaur" at bedtime while standing up nearly naked and nursing a fussy baby.
William decides he should be the one reading the stories instead. He insists upon a fourth-grade chapter book about the adventures of a mischievous wolf pup. It is two hours past bedtime.
Forty minutes later, he has successfully read said book (!!) and in doing so settled the baby down.
"Look Mom," he said triumphantly, "I read Charlotte her first book and put her to sleep! It's magic!"
As messy as it is, he just might be right.